Deed to Damnation

Fated

You will never understand
the damage you've done to someone
until it's done to you..
That's why I'm here.
-Karma

Henry Delarue was not a spiritual man. He was not religious nor did he have faith in anything but himself. He did not believe in fate or any mysticism that he read about or had seen from the earth worshiping natives he had come to know. He lived on his own terms and found that taking care of himself was the only thing worth putting faith in.
But in the aftermath of the chaos that erupted in his great room, he found himself wishing for some kind of divine intervention. Ireland lay at his feet, conscious but in obvious shock. She had managed to prop herself up on her elbows and was staring at the slowly spreading blood stain that was saturating the front of her dress, an oddly serene expression on her face. Gently, she lowered her head to the ground and covered the wound with her hand as if that would heal her.
"It hurts, Henry." Was the last thing she whispered before losing consciousness.
Later on, it would be a mystery to him on how everything transpired afterwards. He remembered Missy screaming and screaming and then his men storming the house, drawn by the gunfire.
The next thing he remembered after the initial mayhem was Ireland being lifted and carried into his bedroom, her motionless body sprawled out on his bed. He couldn't recall which of his men had done it. Everything was a complete blur and he hadn't been ready for what it felt like to not have control. It was like a punch to the gut. He could barely breathe and spiraling panic consumed him so much, his vision actually faded in and out as if he was going to slip into unconsciousness himself. His eyes fell on his bleeding wife and it was enough to snap him out of it and grab his control back, although it was like walking on thin ice.
Moving to the bed, he unsheathed his knife and cut the bloody dress from her, not caring that others were in the room as he did it. The hole, just beneath her rib cage on the left , damn near perfectly round and charred, bubbled crimson liquid every time she exhaled. He stripped a pillow of its case and wadded it, pressing on the spurting wound in an attempt to stop the flow.
"Missy!" He barked.
She was in tears, stroking Ireland's face as if she were an infant.
"Missy! Hold this and press hard!" He yelled, pulling her out of her hysteria.
She nodded frantically, grabbing the pillowcase and taking his place. Henry turned to Daniel who had lost his ferocious look. For once, he looked like a concerned human being.
"I want you to ride back to Solstice and hijack the doctor. I don't care what he's doing and whether you have to knock him out to take him!" Henry ordered. "You make sure he takes that black bag and all those bottles he's got in that office. All of it!"
Daniel nodded just as frantically as Missy had and ran towards the door.
"Don't you stop. You hear?" Henry called after him.
He looked to a young ranch hand and grabbed the kid by the arm, dragging him to the great room where Gwen was dangling limply from her bindings. In one swift move, Henry cut her down, her body dropping with a thud.
"Take her to the barn and truss her up."
"Yes, sir." He complied.
Henry looked to Tim who had managed to push himself into a sitting position in the doorway with three of the gang surrounding him, guns drawn although he was in no shape to offer any resistance. His arm hung limply and at an unnatural angle and he was bleeding but not enough for Henry's taste.
Henry got down on one knee and grabbed a fistful of Tim's dark hair, forcing eye contact. Tim met it unwaveringly through gritted teeth of pain.
"If she dies. You die." Henry growled, and ordered Tim to be taken away with Gwen.

He didn't want to leave Ireland's side but Henry knew even if Daniel grabbed Doctor Bordain as soon as he could, it would still be a full day before they would return. There was no one that resided on the ranch that knew anything about medicine, a thing that he had never even thought to have. He had to get to the Cheyenne village. The shaman had healed him when he was struck down and he only hoped he could do the same for her though her condition was much more dire.
The two hours felt like an eternity and he pushed Bolt to the brink of collapse. Even when two braves tried to intercept him in an attempt to escort him to the village, Henry blew by them, ignoring their commands to stop.
The village was suddenly in view, the billowing smoke from the teepees wafting up to join the large, ivory summer clouds that seemed unmoving in the stagnant summer air.
As he rode closer, the sentinel braves right on his heels, his vision blurred suddenly and a raw burning crept from his chest and spread upward to his throat. It felt scorched, as if a terrible thirst had overtaken him. But he wasn't thirsty and then his stomach knotted and clenched.
What is happening to me, he thought, as he leapt from Bolt as soon as he reached the village perimeter. He wanted to run but his legs gave out and it was a struggle to bounce back up. He had to stop. It felt like someone had stolen the breath from him and his vision was so clouded, it was as if he were looking through the bottom of a dirty glass. He bent over, his hands on his knees to stabilize himself and reached up to wipe his eyes and clear the strange, burning haze that stung so sharply. He stared at his palm in confused wonderment. Tears. And the strange and horrible burning in his chest and throat was grief, as terrible and foreign as the salty, wet droplets that were smeared on his trembling fingers.
The stunning revelation did more than just astonish him. It angered him that the emotional reaction was so foreign and so much a part of his younger self that he hadn't recognized it when it overtook him. He hadn't shed a tear in over a decade, not since the war. And never over a woman. The years had hardened him to the point where taking lives meant nothing and losing people meant even less. They were replaceable. Everyone was up until today.
When Howling Star finally saw him, flanked by his warriors and unusually combative, he dismissed them and took Henry inside his den. He had never seen Waiting Wolf in such a state, frantic and talking so quickly it was near impossible to make out what he was going on about. But once he realized that he was telling him that Watchful Fox had been shot, he sent the shaman back to the homestead straight away with a promise of a sacrifice to the gods to save her life.
They left together, racing back with Henry on a fresh stallion and the shaman riding right beside him. He glanced over at the aged medicine man and swallowed the lump in his throat. The native seemed ancient in his looks, with long, wiry white hair that was flowing wildly in the wind as they galloped towards the ranch, yet he rode like a young brave, determined and fierce. He wore small buckskin pouches around his neck and Henry saw larger ones secured around his waist. He hoped that Howling Star's witch doctor had mystical cures in them because he wanted to grow as old as this Cheyenne shaman with Ireland by his side until the very end.
When they finally arrived at the homestead, Henry saw Missy standing in the window of the great room, wringing her hands in the skirt of her gown. When she caught sight of them, in a flash she was out of the house, intercepting them as they dismounted.
"She don't look good, Mr. Henry." She said urgently.
Henry looked at Missy, the distress evident on her normally youthful and pleasant face. He had not seen her in such a state since he first acquired her and it made him more anxious and concerned if that was even possible.
"You gotta come quick." She insisted.
When Henry laid eyes on Ireland, she was wrapped in a sheet, her pallor almost as white as the linen itself. Her full lips that were normally pink were pale and outlined with a grayish tint. It was hard not to see it as if she was laying in a death shroud, she was so ghostly.
A large, brown stain saturated the light covering but the color of it soothed Henry but not a great deal. The rusty hue of the blood indicated she had stopped bleeding profusely. However, he wasn't sure whether it had been stopped by time and pressure or whether she had no more blood to give.
The shaman was gentle as he peeled back the cover and his face was grim when he saw the wound. He looked at Henry and barked orders that only he could understand.
"Go get me water, Missy." He commanded. "And bring me several bowls and spoons for mixing."
Missy scurried away as the medicine man laid out his wares on the writing desk, unfolding crude instruments and cut stalks of dried grasses and herbs. The pouches around his neck came off and were laid out next to other implements he brought with him.
"Ire." Henry whispered in her ear.
In response to his voice, he heard her suck in a slow deep breath and let out a raspy, labored exhale but nothing more. Taking her hand, he swallowed hard at how cold it was.
The shaman, whose name was Rising Smoke, placed a brown, weathered hand on Henry's shoulder, signaling for him to move so that he could tend to Ireland in the best way he could. Henry acquiesced and backed away without any protest. Right now, Rising Smoke was the only one who could help her and although Henry knew nothing of the ancient medicines he brought with him, it was more than he could give her out here in the wilds.
The old medicine man went to work immediately, lighting a bowl full of pungent smelling dried herbs, the smoke dancing in slow, twisting plumes and filling the silent room. All had been banished from Ireland's bedside but Henry as the shaman began chanting softly and mixing a variety of powders and herbs together until he formed a foul smelling black paste. With old but nimble fingers, he inspected the hole in Ireland's abdomen, stretching it gently until the crusting wound opened slightly and a small trickle of fresh blood began leaking once again. She groaned softly but did not open her eyes and Henry rushed to the head of the bed to see Rising Smoke fill the deep hole with the thick, oily paste.
Under the medicine man's direction, Henry rolled Ireland onto her side and the treatment was repeated on the exit wound. She had been lucky. The slug had passed through her completely. There was no bullet to pull out and the hole was clean and round but the blood loss had been great. He had seen wounds like this in battle and her chances of survival were fifty fifty at best. If the bleeding didn't kill her, infection could very well finish her off.
Rising Smoke nodded, continuing the repetitive chant and helped place her on her back once again. Picking up the smoking bowl, he fanned it with an eagle's feather and moved it over Ireland's still body before placing it at the foot of the bed and going back to his healing tools.
Henry covered her with a clean blanket but left the wound exposed as the witch doctor brought over a small wooden vial and popped off the beeswax seal. The healing chant never ceased as he opened Ireland's mouth and slowly poured the oil-like contents in. It slipped down her throat easily as she never coughed or sputtered. For now he was done but told Henry he would stay until the gods decided her fate. He would stay outside of the dwelling and bless the land every morning at sunrise in hopes that would aid in the recovery.
Henry kissed Ireland on the forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy. There was no fever but he knew by watching soldiers languish in the camps after being dragged off of the battlefield that fevers crept in slowly as infection began.
He left her to go inform Missy of her mistress's condition and that Rising Smoke had done all he could do for the moment. She looked absolutely lost, sitting in a leather high back chair and staring at him with red rimmed eyes.
"The doctor will come, won't he?" Missy asked sullenly.
"Daniel isn't going to take no for an answer. They'll be here." He answered reassuringly.
Doctor Bordain would come. He had to because it wasn't just Ireland that was fading. Tim Drake and his wife were tethered in the barn and the constable's arm would need attention but only if Ireland lived. If she didn't, the only thing that worthless sheriff would be needing was an undertaker. He decided to pay a visit to the barn before taking up vigil at his wife's bedside. Missy would sit with her until then.